The Wistful Cipher
The rain fell in thin, cold sheets against the leaded glass of the infirmary. You stood by the window, watching the water streak down the pane, blurring the grey world beyond into a smear of mud and stone. The air inside smelled of boiled linen and stale herbs. It was a scent that had settled into your bones over the long years of service here, a scent that spoke of sickness and silence. You...
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